thought sadly. No, I wouldn't. Mother and I have never had that
kind of relationship. We were always too busy trying to keep our heads above water
financially,
A mixture of pride and bravado had kept her at Whitmead until early evening. She'd left
just after Ryan himself, but hadn't taken the direct route back to London. She'd told
herself she had too much to think about, but in her heart she'd known the real reason was
that she didn't want to arrive back home at the empty flat.
As she'd driven, she'd decided that things could not go on as they were. That she had to
confront Ryan, and demand the truth, no matter how painful the result might be.
When she'd got home, a gleam of light under the closed study door had told her that Ryan
was in there, presumably working.
Or simply keeping me at bay, shed thought miserably. She'd toyed with the idea of
marching in there and demanding to know what was going on, but the habit of leaving
him in peace was too strong.
Or was it rock-bottom cowardice? she asked herself now, defeatedly. Was she afraid to
ask the question in case she couldn't live with the answer?
When he'd finally emerged, she was sitting apparently engrossed in a television
programme.
'Any good?'
'Total rubbish,' she lied, not wanting to admit she hadn't absorbed one word or one image.
She got to her feet. 'I've made a Waldorf salad for supper. Would you like hot French
bread with it?'
'It sounds too good to be true.' Ryan sat down and became immediately absorbed in the
television.
'Did I tell you that Quentin thinks the last book is going to be made into a mini-series?' he
said, as she came back with a tray.
She gasped. 'Darling—that's marvellous news. Or isn't it?' she added, seeing his ironic
smile.
'I think it's too early to say. It rather depends how they hack it around, and who gets to
play the lead. Quentin says I should take the money and run, but I'd like to retain a
vestige of artistic control, if I can.'
'Well, I still think it's terrific. We should celebrate.' Kate paused, about to place a foot
squarely on thin ice. 'Have we got any champagne?' Her tone was almost too casual.
There was a pause, then he said, 'I wouldn't think so for a moment. But there's rather a
good Pomerol I've been waiting to open. Will that do instead?'
She wanted to say, But you do drink champagne sometimes—don't you? But she didn't
dare. And what kind of fool did that make her?
Instead, 'Yes,' she agreed, tonelessly. 'Yes, of course, the Pomerol will be fine.'
When the wine was poured, she raised her glass to him in a toast. 'Here's to our side.' She
paused. 'Did Quentin phone this evening? Surely not.'
'No,' he said. 'I've known for a few days.'
She stared at him. 'And you didn't bother to tell me.’
He shrugged. 'We've both been pretty occupied.'
'Well, thanks for remembering me at last.' Her voice rose a notch.
'You're welcome.' He smiled at her, totally un-fazed. 'Did I ever tell you that you make
the best Waldorf salad in the world?'
'Once or twice.' She put down her fork. 'Ryan— don't shut me out.'
The words were instinctive, forced from her. And if he made some joke back she would
probably die.
But his face was totally serious. 'Is that what I'm doing?'
You tell me. Aloud, she said, 'I—I don't know. We just don't seem to have the same
amount of time for each other any more.'
He said drily, 'We're not still honeymooners. And our lives have changed. We both have
demanding jobs.'
She played with the stem of her glass. 'Couldn't we have a second honeymoon?'
'Back to Bordeaux to buy some more wine?'
'Not necessarily. And I didn't know that had been the main purpose of the exercise,
anyway.' She paused, 'I thought—an island, somewhere.'
He was silent for a moment. 'I'm fully tied up for some time ahead. Maybe we could
manage a few days in the autumn.'
'Maybe.' Her smile was taut. 'We'll compare diaries.'
But that's not what I want, she thought, picking at her salad.
kind of relationship. We were always too busy trying to keep our heads above water
financially,
A mixture of pride and bravado had kept her at Whitmead until early evening. She'd left
just after Ryan himself, but hadn't taken the direct route back to London. She'd told
herself she had too much to think about, but in her heart she'd known the real reason was
that she didn't want to arrive back home at the empty flat.
As she'd driven, she'd decided that things could not go on as they were. That she had to
confront Ryan, and demand the truth, no matter how painful the result might be.
When she'd got home, a gleam of light under the closed study door had told her that Ryan
was in there, presumably working.
Or simply keeping me at bay, shed thought miserably. She'd toyed with the idea of
marching in there and demanding to know what was going on, but the habit of leaving
him in peace was too strong.
Or was it rock-bottom cowardice? she asked herself now, defeatedly. Was she afraid to
ask the question in case she couldn't live with the answer?
When he'd finally emerged, she was sitting apparently engrossed in a television
programme.
'Any good?'
'Total rubbish,' she lied, not wanting to admit she hadn't absorbed one word or one image.
She got to her feet. 'I've made a Waldorf salad for supper. Would you like hot French
bread with it?'
'It sounds too good to be true.' Ryan sat down and became immediately absorbed in the
television.
'Did I tell you that Quentin thinks the last book is going to be made into a mini-series?' he
said, as she came back with a tray.
She gasped. 'Darling—that's marvellous news. Or isn't it?' she added, seeing his ironic
smile.
'I think it's too early to say. It rather depends how they hack it around, and who gets to
play the lead. Quentin says I should take the money and run, but I'd like to retain a
vestige of artistic control, if I can.'
'Well, I still think it's terrific. We should celebrate.' Kate paused, about to place a foot
squarely on thin ice. 'Have we got any champagne?' Her tone was almost too casual.
There was a pause, then he said, 'I wouldn't think so for a moment. But there's rather a
good Pomerol I've been waiting to open. Will that do instead?'
She wanted to say, But you do drink champagne sometimes—don't you? But she didn't
dare. And what kind of fool did that make her?
Instead, 'Yes,' she agreed, tonelessly. 'Yes, of course, the Pomerol will be fine.'
When the wine was poured, she raised her glass to him in a toast. 'Here's to our side.' She
paused. 'Did Quentin phone this evening? Surely not.'
'No,' he said. 'I've known for a few days.'
She stared at him. 'And you didn't bother to tell me.’
He shrugged. 'We've both been pretty occupied.'
'Well, thanks for remembering me at last.' Her voice rose a notch.
'You're welcome.' He smiled at her, totally un-fazed. 'Did I ever tell you that you make
the best Waldorf salad in the world?'
'Once or twice.' She put down her fork. 'Ryan— don't shut me out.'
The words were instinctive, forced from her. And if he made some joke back she would
probably die.
But his face was totally serious. 'Is that what I'm doing?'
You tell me. Aloud, she said, 'I—I don't know. We just don't seem to have the same
amount of time for each other any more.'
He said drily, 'We're not still honeymooners. And our lives have changed. We both have
demanding jobs.'
She played with the stem of her glass. 'Couldn't we have a second honeymoon?'
'Back to Bordeaux to buy some more wine?'
'Not necessarily. And I didn't know that had been the main purpose of the exercise,
anyway.' She paused, 'I thought—an island, somewhere.'
He was silent for a moment. 'I'm fully tied up for some time ahead. Maybe we could
manage a few days in the autumn.'
'Maybe.' Her smile was taut. 'We'll compare diaries.'
But that's not what I want, she thought, picking at her salad.
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